The Other Henry VIII

Cracks Form

A kind of spell fell over the court for the next month. The King was as in love with his wife as ever, anyone could see, but he was growing more anxious by the day. For the rest of the court, the Queen's continued infertility was the sole reason for the unsettled, on-edge atmosphere and behind every door was a family plotting to put their daughter in the King's bed. It was all too familiar for the experienced courtiers; this was the calm before the storm. Sooner or later, the impatient monarch would cast his wife aside, frustrated, and seek a new wife once more.

Only Clara knew that the King and Queen's distant relations ran deeper than her lack of pregnancy. She told herself every evening before she slept that it was not her fault, that her father's actions were his alone, but she still felt partly accountable. Why did she have to need a husband? Why did it have to happen now, when her father's marriage was at its most vulnerable stage? The self-doubt was like a disease, eating away at her from the inside, invisible to everyone else.

Amongst the tension of the court, just as winter beckoned with its icy talons, Katharine Westover departed for Genoa for her prospective wedding, status elevated by having a sister on the throne. She was to be accompanied by her half-sister Cecily amongst others. The farewell party was stiff and uncomfortable, with frosty, blustering winds biting their cheeks and fingers.
As he watched his daughter leave for a far-off land in that smart carriage, Robert Westover, Duke of Wiltshire knew that he ought to be satisfied. Just as satisfied as Norfolk was when his family's candidate was safely upon the throne. Except, he felt anything but safe. Except by now, Diana Westerly was heavily pregnant and Leia had not even conceived. With the departure of two more Westovers, the Duke felt himself losing the influence that his family had formerly held at court, and he did not like it. This was a hollow victory indeed.

1 December 1523
Edmund dismounted from his horse and handed the reins over to a stablehand with the nod of his head. He took a step back and beheld what was before him: Richmond Palace, shrouded in the merciless English winter that always seemed to arrive too early and cling on for months. He closed his eyes, his heavy overcoat sheltering him from the icy hair. The wedding ring on his finger felt tighter and itchier than ever.

"Why do men get married?" he asked himself softly, clenching his fists in the depths of the coat pockets. His wife's scalding words echoes in his mind like imprints of feet in the sand. Chewing on the left corner of his lip, Edmund approached the entrance, acknowledging the guards as he went. They stepped aside without hesitation: no man dared to question the brother of the Queen herself.
The great hall welcomed him into its warm embrace as soon as he strode in. How he had missed its high, vaulted ceiling and its magnificent staircase. The subdued bustle of servants and courtiers alike swaddled him in comfort and satisfaction like a crackling fire in midwinter.

"Welcome back, stranger," said a lilting voice. Edmund turned and caught sight of a well-groomed gentleman with cropped dark hair, standing not far off. He frowned; the face was somewhat familiar but he could not quite place it. "Excuse me, do I know you?"
The gentleman grinned broadly and took a couple of steps forwards, his hand outstretched. "Daniel Starling. We have met briefly, I believe."
Edmund ignored the gesture. "And yet you call me 'stranger'? With such intimacy?" he asked sharply. Daniel Starling did not appear at all fazed.
"Ah, I suppose that was my mistake."
"Yes, it was." There was a pause, in which Edmund collected himself and ran his hands over his face. "I apologise, I am a little... on edge today. Of course we have met before, what was I talking about?" The two men began to stroll through the right archway, side-by-side.
"If you don't mind me asking, is your wife not with you?" said Daniel, his tone still damp with self-importance. He noticed the other man's face fall. "I apologise, I should not have asked. You must be exhausted, Westover, and aching to see your sister. I won't put myself in your way any longer."

"Oh no, it's quite alright," replied Edmund, surprising himself. "I am exhausted but that is no reason why I should not humour you with a response. My wife did not wish to return to court; in fact, she refused."
Daniel Starling raised his eyebrows. This was an intriguing snippet of gossip for his family to gnaw upon. "Refused? What a shame. You must miss her very much."
"Well." Edmund cleared his throat. He knew that this gentleman was probably only speaking to him in order to gain information for the Starling's well of knowledge but something prevented him from keeping his mouth shut. "You could put it that way."
"Sick of her already?" Daniel slapped him on the back as if they were old friends, chuckling. "This is why we marry for money in this world, my friend. What else can we men do? These pretty young ladies may tempt us for a while but you should never actually solicit them! And now, Westover, you are stuck with her." He stopped, noticing Edmund's eyes scoping the surroundings with painful indiscretion. "Come to court to find a mistress, you cheeky bastard? Don't blame you at all." He laughed again. "Must leave you, I'm afraid. I will see you soon, I expect."

When Edmund returned to the family apartments, as luxuriously-furnished and spacious as he remembered, he was greeted by the sound of his cousin's voice.
"Edmund!" She pulled him into a tight embrace, beaming.
"Verity, how are you?" he returned with a weary tinge to his tone. "How is my sister, the Queen? Why are you not with her?"
It was the wrong question to ask. His cousin sniffed, then swallowed, trying to conjure an answer. "Leia is in good health."
Sensing her state of mind, Edmund lowered his voice to a whisper. "She is not yet with child?" Verity shook her head sadly, squeezing his hand. "I must go, Edmund. Do talk to her; I know she misses you, now more than ever."

He groaned. "We cannot be on thin ice already. It has been but months."
"Yes, I know, but if Leia can't conceive by Christmastide... who knows what he will do to her?" replied Verity with a sigh, her eyes spiritless and downcast.
"Who knows indeed," agreed Edmund, throwing himself into an armchair. The servants would be there soon with his cases, and he was craving a dip in the tub more than anything. "After all, he may say he loves her now, but where did his 'love' get her predecessors? Buried in the cold earth with a broken heart."

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On the other side of the palace, Richard Cavill force his legs to carry him towards the royal stables once again. The boy would be there, no doubt; a diamond, glittering beneath a peasant's shell. This investigation was driving him insane, invading every inch of his existence and keeping firm hold of it. At this point, Richard could not think of any solution other than telling the boy outright and playing it by ear from there.

Like a frenzied madman, he swung the wooden door open carelessly, letting it crash against the wall, and marched inside. The horses in their stalls on either side stared at him accusingly. Richard's eyes searched the dim space briefly and his gaze soon fell upon the boy, unsaddling a lovely chestnut mare which he recognised to be Edmund Westover's.
"You! You there!" Richard cried out, staggering towards him. The boy darted behind the horse like a startled hare.
"Y-y-yes, milord?" he replied, stroking the mare soothingly to calm her down. "How may I s-s-serve you, milord?"
"I need to... I need to speak with you."

Richard Cavill stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath. Of course the boy would not believe him if he behaved this way! What was he thinking? "Would you please walk with me?"
The boy furrowed his brow, as if he did not understand the older man's request. "I'm working, milord."
"Oh." Richard massaged his temples, feeling the protruding veins there as well as a fresh new line across his forehead. "Well, I shall tell you here, by God. Jo— What did you say your name was?"
"James, milord."
"Yes, James. James, are you an orphan? Yes, yes, you are. You say that your father brought you home some thirteen years ago? Well, my baby brother went missing some thirteen years ago. In the same part of London. Do you understand?"
"Milord... You can't mean—"

"Look!" Richard grabbed hold of the boy and half-dragged him towards the drinking trough in the corner, panting heavily. He could not fathom why everyone else was so oblivious to this connection. Their two faces were reflected in the still, Richard's like a sleep-deprived lunatic and James' twisted with confusion and worry. And yet, despite everything, the resemblance was clear as day. The same shade of auburn hair. The same jawline. The same slant of thick eyebrows. The same deep-set eyes. The same lop-sided ears.
The boy was speechless, and Richard could not even blame him. All those months of dogged questioning and eavesdropping, of torment and frustration, finally meant something. Everything slotted into place more than anything ever had before.

"James Goodwin," he whispered, a triumphant smile creeping onto his lips like an easterly wind. The false name felt sour on his tongue. "You are my brother. You are Joseph Cavill."